It was one very late night and I was pretty sure he was already crashed out, so I prayed that the message tone wouldn’t stir him up. It was meant to be read at a later time.

I had added a “haha” to connote that the question was not a pressing one. I had also used the term “pre-engaged” because I did feel kind of engaged…and kind of not. He did not really pop the question. There was no kneeling down on one knee with an amazing diamond ring, nor was there an over-the-top flash mob — just one Sunday night sitting side by side at a musical event and then him uttering something about us getting married.

It wasn’t the first time he brought that up: Earlier that Sunday, we had snuck out of the venue to get something to eat. He said he was starving. Fortunately for him, there was 7-11 so off we went. We got ourselves a table and began munching our way through a cup of noodles and Pringles.

“My parents wanted us to get married already.”

He said it as casually as he could before slurping his noodles. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but smirk. A self-satisfied smirk. He could have glared at me for that, but he sort of discounted it and just went on by saying how his mom had been telling him about her plan to give up work just so she could help us raise our future child, the plans to do this and that, plans, plans, plans, and some more plans.

“I love your parents for thinking that much about us,” I said slowly. “But are we ready?”

A sobering silence hovered over us. You could have heard the cash register ringing. Then his phone beeped. It was Kim the bassist asking where we were. He typed out a reply, hit the send button, and transferred his gaze from his cell phone to me. He smiled. You know the kind of smile that always warms a girl’s heart. That.

I smiled back, popped the rest of the chips into my mouth, wiped my finger on my jeans, and reached for his hand. We left the store back to the venue with our unspoken words still hanging in the air.

So that was the first time. Later that night, as we were sitting side by side waiting for his band to take the stage, he brought it up again.

“Let’s get married. You and I. In three years time.”

I paused. I mean, squealing could have been the most reasonable way of responding to lines like that, but I just swallowed, brought my eyes up, met his steady gaze, and composed myself.

There is no substitute for the gasp of excitement he made as I was sliding his birthday cake out of the box. Careful, careful – I could hear him uttering under his breath, his hands ready to grab the cake just in case I would get assailed by my own clumsiness and crash it onto the floor.

But no. I was not going to let that happen. I knew better than that. His last birthday cake was for his seventh birthday. He hadn’t had any more since, or so I was told. So, no. I’m not ruinin’ it – that was his childhood right there!

Careful, careful. You bet I was. I managed to take the cake out of its box safely and in one piece. “Happy birthday!” I chirped.

He first goggled at this beauty – I love how his eyes sparkled here – for a good minute before looking me in the eye and mouthing a thank you…so much.

I could write more about this but I choose not to. His Instagram post, however, should throw some light on the question.

(This is my coolmate. She’s been supporting me with all that’s important to me: family, church, school, work, and my band. Thank you for being there, coolmate.)

I used to think giving someone a material gift was the BEST way to show your love to them (yep, me and my shallow thinking, errbody), but then again who was I kidding? Gift-giving is not my strong suit.

In the summer of ’93, our local parish announced that they were to open the first kindergarten in our town. I can only imagine excited mothers rushing off to enroll their children immediately after hearing the news, whereas my mothers, by whom I mean my grandmother and my aunt, were as much in the dark as I was. Apparently, we were the last ones to find out what the entire hullabaloo was about.

Nonetheless, my aunt managed to enroll me on the first day of school. I was introduced to a Sister Annie and a Teacher Marissa. Oh, they were the nicest and prettiest ladies I’d ever seen. Shortly afterwards I was introduced to my so-called classmates. My very first real classmates. I never felt intimidated nor out of place when I first met them. I instantly felt a sense of belonging. I mean, most of them were MY kind – the rowdy, chip-toothed, mucus-eating kind. These people were not so much hard to please. I wasn’t put under such pressure. In fact, meeting them was like the beginning of my life. A new and exciting life.

I cannot recall how many we were in the class, but there were a few kids who were definitely noteworthy:

Jonard. He was such a crybaby. Cried at the slightest thing. For example, I would make mean faces at him and he would sob as if the world has ended. Heck, I even would make face at someone else and if he saw it, he would still burst into tears.

Ladynhel. The class princess who was all about Barbie dolls and cute ribbons and butterflies and all the other girly stuff. She indeed was called Ladynhel for a reason.

Raymond. He was an expert in cursing. My mentor. Once we were both given a detention for teaching the other kids some swear words. Teacher Marissa was greatly disappointed and so enraged that she also made us eat chilies in front of the class. As expected, Jonard cried.

Rosemarie. She stole my crayons.

Rustan. The invisible kid. I only came to know about him only on our graduation day. He was the valedictorian.

Mark Alvin. The first boy to have ever told me he liked me. The feeling ain’t mutual.

Kristine Mae. The tomboy. She and I were tight. I can’t even remember why.

Lastly, there was…

Ronaldo. My Ronaldo. My beloved Ronaldo. Shy, but definitely the prettiest boy there ever was. My first kiss, too. It was customary for the parents or guardians to throw a fancy, if not huge, birthday party for their kids. Aside from cakes and gifts, the party also consisted of special numbers, candy shower, and kisses bestowed on the birthday celebrator. On my birthday, Teacher Marissa made my classmates queue up for the kiss. And Ronaldo was the first in line, to Mark Alvin’s dismay.

(Jeez. Writing about these kids makes me feel quite nostalgic now.)

My kindergarten days flew by, incredibly quickly. We eventually had to leave. But before we did, we sang a song that has never left my mind since. The song, as I have later learned, was from the 1979 movie, Voices.

You can swim like a fish if you want to
Swim if you’re brave enough to try
And the whales will be amazed when they see you in the deepest ocean drifting by.

You can run like a stream if you want to
Run down the river to the sea
And the ocean will be full of envy when she sees you running out to me.

You can grow like a tree if you want to
Grow if you’re not afraid to fall
And all the other trees will be jealous when they see you standing straight and tall

You can fly like bird if you want to
Fly like a bird if you dare
And all the other birds will admire when they see you dancing in mid air.

Such is the elegance of this song that it will always remind me of the truth: that there is no harm in being brave, no harm in trying, no harm in dreaming. That I can fly like a bird if I really want to. And I want to.

Not a single morning goes by that I don’t imagine waking up to these seemingly frail arms. For one more time, will you scoop me to your chest again, say “hush baby don’t cry”. Let me snuggle right into you right here, right now.

Hi, friends. I know, I know. I’m such a terrible blogger. It plain sucks when your passion in blogging starts ebbing way sooner than expected. This love-and-hate relationship with blogging, as Reese Witherspoon eloquently puts it, is beyond! But I guess it’s my insecurities and laziness acting up.

It’s about time Addie and I celebrate our very first anniversary. We decided to have dinner in a Greek restaurant with my family. She said that it’s so mainstream if we would have dinner alone, so better invite my family in, since they are the ones who care most for our relationship. Addie and I don’t usually dress up when we go out to eat. But this time, we wanted it to be special since it’s our first anniversary. We both agreed to dress up a bit. I arrived at the location with my family earlier than what was agreed. It’s actually a good thing because I had time to buy her a gift. Thanks to my sister, I was able to decide on what to give Addie. I bought a handbag and asked my sister if she would like a gift like this if someone would give it to her…

He came into my life when I was least expecting it, when I was not really looking. It was my eldest sister, Jing, who introduced him to me. It was not love at first sight, like the last time. It was more of like “Really? Him? Oh…kay.”

It was not long before he finally moved in to live with me. There was no objection from the rest of my family. Thank God. They welcomed him as if he were a prodigal son, able to finally find his way back home. He and my siblings hit it off right away. Imagine my relief.

Living with him was great. Or at least, for one year, it was. He was so effortlessly adorable and sweet. I remember having several bouts of emotional breakdown then and, strangely, the boy would not so much care about finding out why. He would just throw himself at me, look me in the eye as if to say “I am here, remember? Always.” True enough, their eyes have the power to speak a great language. And I believe he has nothing but pure love for me.

Sure, we have had our share of issues. He has never clicked with any of my friends. He has never liked socializing. He has always been an introvert. He does not have an ounce of regard for strangers. He is overly jealous. Very moody.

I stood by his side, even going to great lengths to still provide him everything he needed. Because of that, my sister disowned me. He was the reason she and I had a personal strife. We still do.

It has been two years since he and I started living separately. Only physically, mind you. Our hearts have always belonged to each other. My heart is for him, especially since he needs me now more than anything – his uncontrolled behavior and health problems are apparently taking its toll on his living condition.

And this is the source of my depression these days.

To make matters worse, the very person whom I first solicited emotional and spiritual support from and whom I expected would respond positively (considering!), only turned out to be apathetic about the whole situation just because this boy’s kind, or so he thinks and insists, HAS. NO. SOUL. “So, what’s the point of praying for him?”

That, ladies and gentlemen, has left me stunned.

You know, today, when I visited the boy at his place, I looked at his eyes and I felt the love tug at me. Theophile Gautier had the right words to how I felt this morning, and that’s “Who can believe that there is no soul behind those luminous eyes!”

Thank God for sisters, though. By this I meant, Jing. The part I really do not like the most is him going to rehab, but God knows, he has to. And soon he will. Jing and I are making sure he does. And she is willing to help me with the finances. Gosh, I love her. She does not know I do, for I have never been so vocal about it, but I hope she gets hints. Just recently, Jing wrote a letter addressed to the whole family:

That never fails to bring me to tears. I am very grateful that she understands the love I have for THE BOY. I pray others will do, too.

Standing before her 2nd grade pupils, Mrs. Segismundo held a yellow cardboard high enough for everyone in the classroom to see. On the cardboard were cutout pictures of men doing different things. One was fishing; the other one was doing farm work. There was a man with a suitcase and another with a police gun. The last two men in the picture were doing something I couldn’t very well recognize. I worried about that. What if Mrs. Segismundo would ask me about it?

Mrs. Segismundo then lowered the cardboard and started talking about what each man was doing in the picture. Of that last two men, she mentioned something about counting money and building houses. ¯\(°_o)/

She also added that these men are usually called the ‘head of the family’ and that they do different kinds of work in order to put food on the table.

“They are your fathers,” said Mrs. Segismundo. “Now each of you is going to tell me about your father’s job; what he is doing to provide for your family.”

Mrs. Segismundo first asked the kids who were seated at the first row. Everyone in the class eagerly listened to what each kid was going to say. I learned that at least three of them had fathers whose job was the same as my Papa’s. Mrs. Segismundo’s face would light up at every answer. The rest of us giggled.

And then it was my turn! Fuzzy thought bubbles with an image of Papa in it appeared from my head and with pride, I blazoned abroad — “MY FATHER IS A FARMER.”

Mrs. Segismundo was quick to clarify herself. “Oh, dear, I was asking about your father.”

“Yes, Mrs. Segismundo. He is a farmer.”

Mrs. Segismundo’s brows furrowed, and for a while, she stood there all silent and motionless. I couldn’t make out her facial expression. She was staring at me as if what I said was beyond anybody’s comprehension. As if my response was something like “Wheoujduyhkg”.

“But, dear—” she said with a real concern in her voice. Her heels made loud clunks as she stepped towards me.